Pyracantha
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: There once was a girl who sold her body for money, but now she's a woman taking care of her brothers, and Shikamaru can tell the difference between the two of them easily, but sometimes she forgets which one's which. Temari lives a life of secrets, and Shikamaru just wants to float through life. But things never do go as planned. AU.
1. Prologue

**A.N.****: This story is taken from an idea I got from another fanfic I'm writing called, "Are You Afraid?", which is a series of short stories based off that one question. In the latest chapter, I wrote about a girl who sells her body to raise money so that when she graduates, she can get into college immediately and leave her broken home behind quicker. After I wrote it, I thought, "Hey, wouldn't it be great if I wrote about the other characters' stories, too?" and here we are.**

**This is Temari's story. **

**Which I'll explain better at the bottom, provided you actually make it through this.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Naruto._**

**Prologue**

There was a story once told in his class when he was fifteen, hardly into his first year of the Academy, about a girl who sold her body for money. It had been whispered amongst his classmates, behind the dainty hands of girls or between classes amongst a group of boys, scribbled on notes ripped out from battered notebooks or snickered at a friend sitting nearby. The story went that the girl had gone to their school, and that she had been the most popular in her class, admired for her unmatched beauty and unchallenged intelligence. The teachers had liked her for her quick wit and her peers had all striven to be like her, a perfect role model with impeccable grades and unbridled determination. Out of every single student in the entire school, she had shown the most potential. It was practically expected of her to graduate and make it through a big university. She would undoubtedly be the most successful student to ever walk in and out of those front doors of their rundown, shabby high school, everyone was sure of it.

Except her senior year came, and things took an unexpected turn for her. That part of the story became muddied, unclear. It could've been that her father or mother had lost their jobs, and had been in danger of losing their home, and she did all she could to help them, even the unthinkable. Or perhaps she really needed the money to get into college, and there wasn't much being made in her home. Or maybe even because she had been forced to do it, and she was the true victim here. It was never entirely the same if asked of just anyone—sometimes it was plausible and sometimes it wasn't. All anyone knew was that she suddenly became very quiet and withdrawn, and that her grades had dropped, _just _a little, and that everyone in the entire school at the time became very concerned. Weeks and weeks of asking her over and over again must have broken her down, because she confessed to her closest friend, and begged her not to tell a soul.

The next day, the entire school knew, and she spent the next few weeks being openly judged and criticized. Some teachers said they had expected it—lies fabricated to perhaps cover up their own faults tied to hers—and others said they had never seen it coming. But students pestered her, bullied her, taunted her. Most boys mocked her, asking if they could "have a round" with her—and sometimes she might've said yes, as the girls would tell him; eyes gleaming with misplaced jealousy and spiteful satisfaction. It built and it built until, as he was told, the girl dropped out and ran away.

The story ended with the ominous line, "_And she was never seen again_", which was as good as saying, "_This is all fucking made up and I just wasted the precious time you could've been using to nap during this useless math class I'm actually failing because I'm stupid_."

In his eyes at least.

The entire story _itself_ sounded made up. No girl was that "perfect" to begin with—_oh, gee, she's both smart _and _absolutely gorgeous, whoop-de-doo—_and if her parents had lost their jobs, or if she'd needed the money, she could've gotten a damn job. A _normal _job.

Needless to say, many of his classmates stopped telling him the story.

And so when he says that there was _once _a story told in his class, he actually meant told to _him_. It was still referenced every now and again from time to time. Unnerving, yes, but entirely understandable. Nothing so exciting ever happens within the walls of the Academy, nothing past petty vandalism or a few delinquents being carried off to a juvenile detention center every now and again. He understood the fascination, had shared in it briefly when it was first mentioned, but he was a forever logical person, and, as such, his mind began breaking down the facts until he had a logical explanation, which he never did receive.

He lost interest rather quickly.

If it had happened, which he doubted very highly, then it wasn't his business. By now, the girl would've graduated and been off to live her life the way she chose. He'd never known her and he never will, and so it wasn't his concern.

He merely tuned out their gossiping and shut his eyes to sleep, the ignored drone of the teachers' voices drowning out to blackness.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

There were two things she was absolutely fucking _amazing _at.

The first, she had a knack for thinking her way out of things. Like taking out the trash and sweeping up the entire building, or maybe even cooking the occasional dinner for her coworkers in celebration of a job well done on a particularly good day. She was quick to figure things out and even quicker to figure her way _out _of them. Which was entirely too helpful on her bad days, which seemed to become more and more frequent as time went on.

The second, she was unbelievably good at blocking things out. Numbing herself down had always been a gift of hers, but now it was a sort of occupational hazard. And there were moments she needed it most, like now for example, when her eyes saw too much and her skin felt everything—the sweat and the hair and sticky skin sliding against hers, hands touching and groping and mouth moving across her flesh as if she were food—times when her mind soaked up too many facts and her thoughts hardly stopped working in swirls within her head... And then when they looked too closely at her face, and they demanded things of her she didn't feel like giving—but what choice did she fucking have anymore?

Ah, yes, there was a third one. Faking. She could fake pretty well, too.

When all was said and done, and the sheets were soiled and dampened with thick fluids that made something cold turn within her stomach, she was silent once more, and averted her gaze as they dressed and left the appropriate amount atop the simple nightstand, the door sliding open and then sliding shut, leaving her to her thoughts. Always thinking. Always pondering. Always wondering about life and facts and death and lies—pretenses and truths and facades and the color coins had in the sun when they were freshly cleaned by homemade chemicals that smelled like sour lemons and dirty water. The thoughts tumbled and fell and cracked and split before she blinked—once, twice, three times—and it was gone.

The clumps of sheets around her were just that, no longer grayish waves of remorse and despair for her to travel all alone, and the ceiling had cracks and stains in them, and were every bit as ugly as the facts of the matter at hand. She was awake now and her body was cold and she wished there was a warm cover somewhere to wrap herself up in; she wanted to sleep forever, even when her dreams promised violence and restlessness. Reality was a cruel little bitch again, and she was its next prey.

A moment passed, where the walls settled back into place and the flowers printed upon the paper doors stopped swaying, and the sound of approaching footsteps alerted her to a new visitor. For a split second, she wondered if she should clean herself, but a yawn erupted from her body and she decided it wasn't worth it. The door slid open and there stood a tall man, dressed in a black kimono with a gray obi, long black hair pulled back into a low ponytail and dark eyes finding her immediately, and she held her breath for a few heartbeats, searching his face through the foggy crevices of her conscious mind.

And then he smiled a lazy smile, paled lips titling up just a little, and his dark eyes lightened ever so slightly, offering the warmth she longed for. "I brought you a blanket," he murmured, holding up the folded bundle of red in his arms.

She smiled back at him, and the thoughts in her mind finally quieted a little more.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

**A.N.****: Okay.**

**There's a manga I read called, "The Withering of the Akane Shinchi Flower Shop", and it really moved me. It was a the first psychological manga I had ever read and it struck me, hard, how well done it was. I really do think, if you guys haven't read it, you should. It has sensitive topics and it's quite graphic, but it is well worth it. Just needs patience. It inspired me to write something similar—but not quite exactly—and this is pretty much what came from it. **

**Moving on. In these stories I'm writing, it will have the same basic idea as the manga had; as in, location and whatnot. The "Flower Shop" is actually a brothel, in the red-lights district, and is owned by a young man in high school and his older brother. The story centers around three particular women working at the brothel and their individual stories; how they came to be there, what their purpose is, and everything that comes afterward. The women are: Sakura, Temari, and Tenten. But it's not limited to them, because there are also the stories of the two brothers who own the shop, the people that come into contact with them, and how they all come together.**

**This, like I said, is Temari's story. **

**Temari is in her early twenties, and Shikamaru is about seventeen. Her story will, obviously, be explained throughout the chapters of this story. **

**Anyway, I'll have the next chapter out soon, so look forward to that. **

**Please review! It feeds my inspiration. And, considering my random bouts of writer's block, I kind of need it.**


	2. The Pastry Shop

**A.N.****: There are relationships in this story that do not exist in the manga/anime, but that really shouldn't bother you because most fanfics do that in order to help along the story. AU, in fanfic language, stands for "Alternate Universe", but we all should know that; this story takes place in Japan, set during present day, but I won't elaborate too much on the date past seasons. It takes place in a slightly more rural area with more trees than buildings, but it isn't all countryside and dirt roads. More like a small town just a few miles out from a larger city.**

**Shikamaru is a high school student, and goes to a special Academy built in the center of the actual town. It's large and looks more like a college than a high school, but it isn't entirely what it seems. It's home to kids who are unusually talented and/or come from a good family. For example, say Naruto is a student there, I would make it that he was incredibly skilled at an instrument or perhaps he is an undiscovered artist and got in because of high praise. Or if, perhaps, Hinata went; she would be there because her highly renowned family sent her there in the hopes that she would make them proud. But, like I said, it isn't what it seems. To the parents or guardians of the students, it looks like a very promising and highly established school, but it is actually extremely lax in its rules and half-filled with lazy, uncaring teenagers, rebellious delinquents, kids with duel lives, and an occasional genius. **

**Using my two examples from before: Naruto would have a duel life—being cheerful and gifted on the outside, but sad and lonely on the inside—and Hinata would be that occasional genius; although with far too much responsibility on her back and not enough courage to face it. **

**I'll explain more at the bottom. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer****: (I'll stop doing these at some point. They irritate me sometimes.) I do not own ****_Naruto_.**

**The Pastry Shop **

Shikamaru had a sort of ritual, everyday after school, one he hardly ever missed.

His house wasn't a far walk from the Academy, and he rather preferred to walk over being driven, on most days. His father liked to talk and he wasn't exactly a morning person, so he decided to spare his father from his vexation by forcing himself awake on the journey to school. It was the very least he could do, after all. His father had enough to deal with, having to face his temperamental mother.

Along the way, passing neighborhoods and alleyways and small plazas of stores and gas stations, there was this shop that sold pastries—a measly little thing with pretty little cakes and muffins displayed behind squared windows that needed to be replaced soon—and though he wasn't a great fan of sweets themselves, these were special. These had stories behind them that actually _did_ interest him.

The shop was once owned by a man he never learned the name of, who had had a stern face and was much too serious to be approachable, and the sweets had always tasted bitter and burnt, and he'd wondered how they'd gotten any customers at all; perhaps it was the supposedly pretty daughter Shikamaru had never once seen in all his life but had heard wonders of. The owner had died of a heart attack one night, perhaps around the time Shikamaru had been thirteen, and the shop was left to the children. He didn't know which of his children owned the shop now, and had never actually met the owner in person, had only heard their muffled voice from a back office hidden behind a wall by the front of the shop. All he knew was that the sweets, since then, had actually started tasting sweet.

And that was very curious indeed.

His mother liked them very much, and asked him to buy some every now and then so that she could enjoy one. Somewhere along the way, he had started liking them, too, and went to the shop even if his mom _didn't _ask him to. Even more curious, because Shikamaru did not have a single sweet tooth to speak of. At least, he'd never thought so.

It wasn't very fancy, if he had to be honest. It was small, with only a table or two set out for customers to eat there, but it was clean and nicely decorated, with homely smelling candles and simple paintings hung up to add color. Sometimes a flower would be set out at each of the two tables and sometimes some tablecloths were put out instead. Whatever the case, it always had the slightest touch of femininity that did not suffocate him as much as other shops did. So he automatically liked it more than other pastry shops that lined the streets the closer he got to his school; a cheap marketing trick that allured female classmates.

The employees were always the same, and alternated throughout the week, different depending on what time he got there. If he got there a little later than usual on weekdays, it would be a girl with long black hair there, which shone more purple than black in some lights, a classmate of his that was quiet and shy and surprisingly pretty when she smiled; fitting in this innocent place. If he came earlier during the weekdays, it was an older man with gray hair and a silly disposition that he had met once or twice in passing, perhaps in the library or around particularly peaceful parks. But if he came any time late at night or in the weekend, it was always one boy standing at the cash register, expressionless and solemn, out of place in the shop.

He didn't have a problem with the guy—if he remembered correctly, he went to the Academy, too—but he always had a moment of doubt when he stepped through the front door, a little bell chiming above him attached to the entrance, and he saw the boy standing there, silently and patiently waiting for customers, which were few and far between on bad days. He looked too young to be there, and yet too old; misplaced, and yet like he belonged there. His hair was wild and uncombed, his skin was stark white and unblemished, and his eyes were pale and piercing. A frown was settled upon his lips and his hands were always too still for Shikamaru to be comfortable with—a normal person moved them around, a normal person would tap them while they're waiting, a normal person would put them in their pockets or play with the pen on the counter, a normal person wasn't so statue-like.

But the boy was a hard worker, and took whatever orders he was given quickly, efficient and diligent, and, for some strange reason, the sweets were always just a little sweeter on those days.

And Shikamaru wasn't a fan of pastries, but these were special.

Because they were once bitter, but now they weren't. Because they were laced with tragedy, but tasted of hope. Because they made his mind go blank, for just a second, and that never really happened for him. Because he could forget things when saw them.

Once or twice, he swore his mind was still when he ate them, and his thoughts were no longer bothering him.

And the sweetness coating his tongue was actually not so bad when he let himself taste it, when he didn't over think it.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

"Temari," a deep voice mumbled the moment she stepped into the house.

The cold air swirled into the front room, and she could make out his shape from the sofa in the darkness, draped across the seat with his arm hanging off the side. A book was on the ground, open and faced down, perhaps half read before he passed out completely some hours ago. She could hear the clock ticking from the kitchen, just beyond the open doorway a few five feet behind him; at the same time, she heard cars passing by on the street and a dog barking somewhere a few houses down. She shut the door behind her and slipped off her shoes, making her way to the hallway and flicking on the light.

"Go to bed," she said, peeling off her coat and hanging it on the hook by the front door. She didn't have time for this right now. Her body was exhausted and her mind was overwrought from too many questions and pondering tangents in empty conversations, and she just wanted to lay down and shut out the world for a little while. Just a little while.

Or maybe forever.

She heard him stretch and yawn, pulling her back to reality, shifting and picking the book up off the floor with a tired grunt and forcing himself onto his feet.

"Where were you?" he asked, rubbing at his eye and then wiping the drool from his mouth. "We waited up all night for you."

_We...? _She felt her eyes narrow, and then slowly widen before she turned and hurried into the kitchen, switching on the light and gritting her teeth as it flickered on slowly; they needed to be replaced soon, those damn light bulbs. But what did it matter? A slender boy slept at the table, a brown packaged box across from him, and she felt her stomach flop in a brisk, short lived panic and then sighed. She walked forward, bypassing the box for the boy, patting down the wilder spikes of hair on his head. "What, exactly, were you two waiting up for?" she asked in a hushed voice.

He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "That box there, that's what."

She knew what it was before she even looked, and clenched her fists. "Go to bed, Kankuro."

"But—"

"_Now_," she snapped, her tone leaving no room for arguments, and he turned and walked away, grumbling. She shook Gaara gently, and thanked her lucky stars he was a light sleeper, and that the grouchiness Kankuro usually had when woken hadn't passed on to him as well. He blinked up at her blearily, eyes unfocused and confused, before his brow furrowed and his lips turned down in a small frown.

"I...worried..." he sighed, bringing up his hands to curl around the edge of the table, face relaxing when she smiled slightly. "I worried you wouldn't...come home..."

She hated that he was observant, that he always had been, and so goddamn honest to boot. The way he read people was scary, and it made something in the corner of her mind stir, a memory of a younger girl who wanted nothing more than to make her family proud... She merely shook her head and fixed the collar of his t-shirt in the fussy way she used to do. An act, they both knew, to comfort him. He might've been beyond simple consolation now. She didn't know. "Go to sleep. We'll take a look at it tomorrow. It's late now."

He stood, slowly, and made to leave, but stopped midway. "I...had a dream...Onee-san... You weren't here anymore." His eyes were childlike, innocent, as if the prospect both amazed and terrified him. She was not used to seeing that expression on him. She was not used to him speaking to her this way.

"I'm still here," she said around the lump in her throat.

She was thankful he didn't say, "_Will you always be?_"

Gaara wasn't the prying type, and so he left it at that. He turned, then, and walked away, out the kitchen and down the hallway, into his room to sleep. His door clicked softly shut and a breath left her she hadn't known she'd been holding.

She dragged a hand down her face, smiling bitterly. _Is this what my life's gonna be like? Supporting my kid brothers and hiding my life from them? _Shit. If she'd known this is what she'd been destined to do, she would've offed herself _ages_ ago. She opened the fridge and rummaged for a snack, settling for a can of soda and a half finished chocolate bar, gathering the box in one arm and shutting herself away in her room.

The box was left on the chair in the corner, where it wouldn't be bothered or bother her, and she stripped off her clothes to sleep. She left the window open for her too-hot skin to cool and flopped onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling and taking deep breaths.

Thoughts began to spiral, and she shut her eyes to let them reign free.

She was tired of looking at ceilings anyway.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

He pinched at the skin of his elbow, tilting his to the side as the girl beside him rambled on about God knew what, and smiled in spite of himself when he _didn't _suddenly bolt out of bed, woken from a dream. It would've been a shitty dream to begin with anyway.

The sun was too bright—an effect of late autumn, he was afraid—and the clouds were scarce today, not much more than quick, pathetic streaks of faint white across a too blue sky. The grass was damper than he would've liked, droplets flicking when he smoothed his hands across the blades lightly, glistening in the sunshine a yellow that was less green than it should've been. Birds chirped, but not gently, and they came too near, curious and hungry for the lunch box settled between he and the girl who continued talking despite his obvious disinterest, and a small fruit fly continued to tickle his cheeks and arm, searching for food that was not there. The yawn that escaped him moved too deep and shook him to his core and the tears that gathered in effect were cold and blurred his vision more than it should've. The students passing by laughed too loudly and came in clusters, making their way across the campus, still enjoying the rather late bell before classes began.

It was between his building annoyance and the simpleminded babbling beside him and his desperate search for something interesting to look at that he saw it for the first time.

A flash of red somewhere within the next crowd.

He might not have caught it had it not paused to check its phone for a few long moments, pale thumbs fiddling and then moving across the screen as it replied to some text received. Confusion, curiosity, and then recognition flitted through him, and then he was on his feet, moving away from the girl with a quick, "Excuse me"—because if there was one thing his mom had taught him, it was that women deserved to be treated with manners no matter who they were, and he'd be damned if he didn't listen to his mother—hurrying toward the boy already sliding the phone back into his pocket, taking a step in the direction he'd been heading to before.

"Wait," Shikamaru said, slowing to a jog and then to normal walk as the boy paused, uncertainly, and then turned to look at him. He was shorter than Shikamaru by an inch or so, and had an air of fragility about him, as if he was breakable, but there was an underlying sense of danger there, behind his clear green eyes that looked Shikamaru up and down cautiously, as if any wrong step toward him could be the last. His uniform was neat but the tie was loose and the buttons of his overcoat were undone, shoes scuffed and yet polished, and the pants he wore were definitely not part of the uniform, but that wasn't anything that stood out too much, considering the condition of other uniforms around them, some torn and some completely discarded for an outfit that would get the student thrown out. It was that hair, really, that got him.

The boy from the pastry shop.

He looked different in the daytime, even more misplaced. His skin shone whiter, like porcelain would, and his eyes glowed almost neon, more intense than usual. The shadows across his face were more pronounced, and where his eyebrows had been indistinguishable before, he could see the hairs that were so thin they were white, furrowed in concern and bemusement. The darkness around his eyes were darker, and Shikamaru suddenly wondered if the boy ever got any sleep.

Surprisingly, the boy spoke first, straightening and relaxing, slightly. "You're the one that visits the shop every day," he said in a low, raspy voice that was all too fitting on him.

"Yes," Shikamaru said slowly, brows drawing together.

The boy seemed to notice immediately, and the very edge of his lips turned up a fraction; the mere shadow of a smile. "My brother sees you. He's the baker."

"I never see _him_," Shikamaru said, a little more accusatory then he'd meant to sound.

"Yes," the boy acknowledged, unsurprised. "He prefers not to be seen. He thinks working there is unmanly. But it's not like we have a choice."

It seemed personal to Shikamaru, this information, but the boy seemed unbothered sharing it. Realization dawned on him and his eyes widened. "You're...one of his kids," Shikamaru breathed, astonished. Not at all what he'd expected to see, really. He'd expected someone older, someone more like the former owner had been—completely unapproachable and stern; but all this boy was was quiet and earnest, albeit slightly unnerving in his impassivity.

Confusion and then understanding passed over the boy's features. "I'm the youngest, and I can only work the register. My brother is, like I'd said, the baker. My sister owns the shop."

Shikamaru nodded. "I've never seen your sister."

For a split second, a guarded look flickered behind the boy's eyes, uncertainty and something like fear, but it was gone before he could catch it, and he felt his breath leave him, surprised. "She's very busy, often," the boy explained, reaching a hand into his pocket and taking out his phone, checking for messages and then frowning to himself. "Would you like to meet her?"

A small smile tugged at his lips. "I would, yeah. My mom's always been curious about the owner and I promised I'd speak to them when I got the chance. I never have."

The boy nodded once. "I'll tell her," he said. "She doesn't get many requests."

"Has she made anything herself?"

A brief look of mirth shone in the boy's eyes, as if he was remembering some inside joke. "She would burn the entire shop down if she did. But she does make the frosting. That's the only thing my brother lets her do anymore."

Without thinking, Shikamaru licked his lips, recalling the last cupcake he'd eaten. The frosting had always been his favorite part, to be honest.

The bell rang before Shikamaru could say anything else, and the boy turned to go. "Forgive me," he said. "I have to speak to my teacher about something."

"Can I know your name?" Shikamaru asked, following after as they climbed up the steps to the entrance.

"Gaara," the boy provided, and then glanced at him with a questioning look.

"Shikamaru." He held out a hand to shake, and, after a moment of pause and doubt, a cool, surprisingly calloused hand grasped his firmly and shook once. "I'll see you around, Gaara-san."

A smile crossed Gaara's face, and it wasn't as slight as before. "Yeah."

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

"Would you like some tea?"

She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, glancing up as she padded over to the low table. He sat with an empty teacup dangling from his finger by the handle, a lazy smile on his face, black eyes gentle as they always seemed to be. Strands of his dark hair fell from his ponytail, and a sliver of his pale skin was visible between the folds of his kimono, more than she was used to seeing. He'd most likely just woken up from a nap, and had decided to drink a cup to ease his nerves, as stressed out as he'd been lately.

Being the owner of a Flower Shop did that to a person. Or the former owner at least.

"I would, thank you," Temari said, sitting down across from him.

There were two things that had to be known about the Flower Shop. The first, the flowers were figurative, but not in the obvious sense that anyone would think—the woman wasn't the flower, and neither was her sex; just the act itself. The second, the owner was a seventeen year old high school student.

The manager's older brother had once owned the shop, once upon a time, as had his late father before him and _his _father before him, but he had given up the spot and handed it down to his younger brother. Why? The conscience was a terribly gnawing thing when it became too heavy, and Itachi Uchiha was certainly filled to his very core with it.

But to abandon his brother would be worse, and so he remained within the walls of the flower shop, on the side of the house were business and money counting did not mix, and waited out his days until his baby brother gave up on the shop altogether. Greed was an even more terrible thing, and time and patience and it would die away soon, at least he hoped it would.

Temari reached out as soon as he set down a steaming cup before her, his lips still curled up in a faint smile, and rested her hand on his lightly. "If this ever ends," she said, "would you marry me?"

His smile widened, just a little. "In a heartbeat," he murmured, tapping his finger against the teacup rhythmically as she pulled her hand away. "But we both know we'll be divorced within a week."

"A day," she chuckled, shaking her head. "A _day_ would be too much."

"And," he murmured, looking down as he smiled around his sip of tea. "You would never settle down."

"What makes you say that?" she asked, amused.

"You're much too beautiful to be tied down to any one man. And they are undeserving of you."

"Are you coming on to me?"

"Completely. Is it working?"

"I'm thoroughly seduced."

He laughed, lifting his cup to drink again. "If you weren't so stubborn, I would marry you, Temari-san. In _less _than a heartbeat."

"Why, that would be impossible," she teased. "Statistically, and logically, speaking, that is entirely impossible. There have been tests run—"

"And," he interrupted, setting down his cup quietly. "If you weren't so smart, I would trick you into it, too."

"How about just into bed?" she said, resting her chin in her hand. "How about I show you something new?"

"I _am _older than you."

"By what, a few months?"

"Try a year."

"Oh, sweet lord, the _endless _amounts of experience you have compared to me. How can I _ever _catch up?"

"Ah, yes, and the sarcasm."

"You have quite a lot of complaints."

"You have quite a lot to offer."

"If you can't handle me, then I guess we can't get married."

"See, I knew we wouldn't last."

"But our babies would've been beautiful, no?"

He laughed again, eyes gleaming. "They certainly would. With my hideous face and your horrid temper. A great match."

"What about my pretty face and your endless selflessness?" she smirked.

"Drink your tea. We'll discuss this like two mature adults."

Before she could respond, another retort hot on her tongue, a pair of feet thumped mutely from the hallway, and they both turned to see who it was, sipping their tea respectively. A handsome boy appeared in the doorway, combing down his hair with his fingers and fixing a pair of dark glasses on the bridge of his sharp nose, dark eyes moving across the room before finally settling on her.

She tensed, and then deflated slowly.

There was a difference between big brother Itachi and little Manager Sasuke. It was in their eyes. The same color, yes, and both equally intense. But there was a warmth in Itachi's that could not be found in his little brother's, a wisdom and understanding she found comfort in. Manager had cold eyes, empty eyes, when they were working; they reverted back to an innocent sort of begrudgingly relaxed look when the day was done, as if he didn't want to admit he liked being around them at all. But the coldness always stayed over and she never could find herself speaking to Manager like she could to Itachi. Since day one of her employment there, it seemed, they have been friends.

It helped, she thought, that he used to go to the Academy when she had, around the time shit hit the fan. It helped, she knew, that he didn't give two fucks that she sold herself out to men. It helped, they _both _knew, that he still called her beautiful, even after she felt so completely used.

That she would give her body away even after he said she didn't have to.

Like now. If Manager's eyes were on her, and if he was slipping on his the haori with the business insignia on the back, it meant she was being requested again.

With a pat on his hand and a quick little smile, she stood from her place and walked toward the Manager. "Thank you for the tea, Uchiha-sama," Temari said, and Itachi gave a strained smile.

Really, she was only ever polite when she was completely exhausted.

"Thirty minutes," Manager said. "Two more, and you're done for the day."

"I'll make curry," Itachi said, standing and collecting the cups. "I'll save you a plate."

She did not answer, already shutting off her mind and feeling her body go numb as she silently made her way to her assigned room.

Thirty minutes just staring up a ceiling she'd memorized a thousand times over.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

The taste was spicy on her tongue, and it lingered even after she'd finished knotting her hair back up. Itachi stood by the door, holding up her coat for her to slip her arms through. He had fixed his ponytail, and the sliver of skin was covered once more by the modest cloth of his kimono. Wide awake and still so calm. The cold autumn air came to touch her cheeks lightly, as if to coax her out the front door quicker.

She slipped her shoes on.

"You seemed troubled all day," Itachi murmured, as if beginning some casual smalltalk.

Her lips quirked, not quite a smile. "My baby brother thinks I'll leave them."

"I always do hope you don't," he admitted, and she was not surprised.

They've had this conversation before.

"Goodnight, Uchiha-sama."

"Goodnight, Temari-san."

She turned before another word could be spoken, and stiffly walked away, deeper into the cold, ducking away from stray glances and hurrying to her beat down car, into the pathetic offering of warmth it gave. She sighed, closing her eyes and tilting her head back against the headrest.

Why did the best people have to be so observant?

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

"You're home late," his father commented as he shut the door.

"I was with a friend," he explained, crossing his way into the kitchen to set down the paper bag on the counter.

"Buying sweets...?"

"You have no place judging me. You married mom."

His father laughed, reaching a hand into the bag for a sweet—_he _has always had a sweet tooth. "You'll never let that go, huh?"

"You're an idiot."

"Ah, but if I'd been smarter, you wouldn't be here."

"You say that like it matters."

"You're a silly child. Go to bed. You have school tomorrow."

"It's Friday."

"Your mother always says I lose track of time."

Shikamaru picked one with blue frosting, one Gaara had handed him himself, and turned to go upstairs to his room. "Tell mom I bought her favorite. Night."

"Night, kid."

He licked the frosting off as he went, shutting the door behind him and pausing near his bed for a moment. It was bitter this time. He sighed and tried not to wonder why.

It was just frosting.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

"Chiyo," Temari said, holding up the box to look at and then placing it back down on the coffee table. Her brothers were sitting on either side of her, watching her fidget and fiddle with the box silently; Gaara on her left and Kankuro on her right, both dressed in the pajamas she'd gotten them the Christmas before. Suckering her into opening the box sooner.

Dinner was already cooked, cooling in the kitchen, waiting to be eaten, and the house had been already cleaned to a nice shine. The books gathered and put back in the shelves and the potted plants watered back into vibrancy. There had been a steady thrumming of a guitar somewhere in the house, but it had cut off when she'd slammed the door shut, and the messy brown hair of her younger brother popped out from the hallway, staring back at her expectantly. Her baby brother had been doodling some sort of tree in a sketch book she'd bought him once on a whim, and had been laying on the floor in front of the door, waiting for her.

She'd really had no choice.

"Chiyo," Kankuro repeated slowly. After a long moment of thought, he sat up straighter, clapping a large hand against her back that hurt a little more than she would ever admit, a reaction he always made when he remembered something he'd forgotten for a long time. "Baa-chan!" he exclaimed.

Gaara tilted his head to the side. "We have a grandmother? Why haven't I met her?"

Temari smiled patiently. "She's not really our grandmother. She was our nanny for a while, until we were too old to have her. You were three or four before she left and you were usually with Uncle around that time. It's okay if you don't remember her."

"Why would she send us a package?" Gaara asked, bringing the box to his lap.

"Maybe there are presents," Kankuro murmured, and then chuckled. "She always bought us presents."

She handed Gaara a box cutter wordlessly.

It was painful. She knew exactly what this box was and it stabbed a million shards within her chest, jarring as Kankuro went on to tell their baby brother about their old nanny, and all their fond memories. Chiyo had been hired by their father some time after Gaara had been born, after their mother's untimely passing, and had taken care of she and her two brothers for quite some time. Their uncle appeared on their doorstep one day, and was welcomed by their father with open arms; back then, their father had been a wounded, but kind enough man, not at all how he ended up being. Uncle took over the care taking for Gaara for a while, until he was four and Uncle seemed to lose all will to live—a car ride to the zoo with their baby brother led to the horrible crash that ended his misery. An attempt to take the little boy's life, as an officer had reported to their father at the hospital, a scared and confused Gaara lying on the bed wrapped up in white sheets, hardly a scratch on his little body. Their father had become cold and distant after that, a change fueled by his fear of losing his children, too.

Chiyo had told them, resting her gentle hands upon their shoulders as they stood at the bedside, reaching out to touch their baby brother, who flinched away and sobbed silently into the pillow—so much tougher than most adults even as a child—that it was their mother who had protected Gaara. And Temari had had no doubt then, and certainly not one now, that that was the truth of it.

A few weeks later, their father fired Chiyo, and took care of them himself.

The house had felt empty for so long after that.

As Gaara pulled away the wings of the cardboard box, she felt a dread accumulate within her lower gut. The tissue paper was the same pretty white as the dress Chiyo had bought her on her birthday so long ago, and it crinkled and gave beneath her baby brother's spindly fingers, folding it carefully and laying it on the coffee table. There were three letters, with their names scrawled across the fronts, and Gaara handed them out carefully, pausing in his opening of the box to inspect his own envelope.

His had a sticker of a panda on the front, and he fingered it curiously, brow furrowing. She didn't bother telling him that, when he was younger, he had told Chiyo in his soft little voice that his favorite animal was the white and black bear that ate bamboo all the time.

She kept her letter in her lap, watching him open his slowly. After a moment, she realized Kankuro was doing the same.

What possible sentiments could Chiyo have given Gaara?

A folded piece of paper with a note, which he read silently before letting a smile touch his lips. And then, to her astonishment, there were drawings. Sketches of animals and buildings and people, and that was all there was, within the little envelope. They were beautiful and wordlessly sweet. It made sense, Temari thought, that Chiyo would give him such an innocent thing. He looked at them closely and then slid them back into the envelope.

"I wish I could've known her better."

And it struck Temari, immediately, that Gaara already seemed to know what was going on. And that really did scare her.

More than anything else.

Gaara would always be smarter than most people in the world ever were.

She stood then, about ready to bolt, when her phone began to vibrate in the pocket of her coat, which she had forgotten to take off. She pulled it out quickly and answered, pressing it to her ear and stepping around the long legs of her baby brother, closer to the door. "Yes?" she breathed, pressing a hand to her chest to still her pounding heart. The enveloped poked her chin before she could and she felt something cold sink deeper within her.

"_You sound troubled,_" a familiar voice spoke from the other end.

She swallowed down the saliva that had built up, her throat too dry and yet too slick. "I'm just..."—she shook her arm in the air in search of what to say—"I'm just a little out of sorts. What is it? What's wrong?"

She hoped there was somewhere she had to be.

She hoped she could get away from the sorrow pulling at the strings of her mind.

She hoped she could escape the wide eyes of her baby brother.

For once, luck was on her side. "_We're a little...short on staff here. Fridays always do bring more customers in than usual. I was... Can you come in? I know you're tired, but..._"

"That's fine," she said, tucking the envelope into her coat pocket. "I'll be there soon."

As she hung up, she turned to apologize, a lie quick to leave her lips, but was met with the eyes of her younger brother, standing before her with his arms crossed. He stared down at her accusingly. "You're leaving?"

"Work," she explained, and reached past him to unlock the door.

Gaara folded another sheet of tissue paper, and then met her gaze slowly. Fear rolled through her and she looked away. He would see too much if she let him in too close. He was just that kind of a person. "I don't see why you need two jobs, Onee-san. You own the bakery...is that not enough?"

She shook her head and pulled the door open, forcing Kankuro to back away, toward the living room. "Not if we're going to keep this house, no," she muttered, and then slipped out the door and into the night once more, shutting the door behind her.

_Coward, _her mind hissed at her.

As she hurried to the car, she heard the front door open again, and the sound of someone running up toward her. She turned, prepared to snap at Kankuro for following her, but stopped herself before she could when she saw Gaara instead. She worried, like a sister should, about the cold weather and his lack of jacket, reaching a hand out to touch his already cooling arm. "What are you doing? Go back inside! It's _freezing_ out here."

He shook his head, and locks of wispy red fell across his forehead. He'd need a haircut soon. "I wanted to tell you before you went. A boy came up to me at school. He comes to our shop everyday, and I talked to him tonight for a while. He wants to meet you."

A smile softened her features, and she sighed. It wasn't often someone wanted to meet her, especially for more platonic reasons. "I'll see if I can stop by soon, then. Now goodnight."

"Goodnight," he murmured, stepping away and turning to go.

"Eat your vegetables," she said absentmindedly, opening her car. "You're too short."

A short, uncharacteristic chuckle left him. "You're blind, Onee-san."

He disappeared into the house and her smile fell slowly.

"I wish you were, too, Gaara."

The envelope felt like a thousand pounds in her pocket, and she sunk a little further into her mind.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

**A.N.****: Curious?**

**Itachi has a relationship with every character in some sort of way. And if he doesn't yet, he will soon. In this story, he is both the peacekeeper and a voice of reason. He comforts the girls that work in the Flower Shop and keeps them from losing their ground, but he also reminds them why they are there, even if he himself doesn't like it. He's like a big brother to all of them. To Temari, because they both went to school at the same time and were classmates, he's the only true friend she has anymore, and the only reason she hasn't run away from her responsibilities. **

**Sasuke is the opposite. He is basically there to get the money, but, at the same time, he's still just a kid, and grows up with the girls in their journey of trying to find their place. He respects them and worries over them, but in a very Sasuke like way; quietly and coldly. **

**So. Gaara is starting to notice how Temari acts, but doesn't question her because, for one, he doesn't want to push her away with his prying. Kankuro, on the other hand, is becoming suspicious and will confront her about it soon.**

**Shikamaru is curious about the story behind the Pastry Shop. More specifically, the owner. Why? He has a feeling it's important.**

**Okay, so explaining the last scene, with Temari and Gaara. He calls her blind because, in this story, he's actually pretty tall—five-nine or so—but she calls him short. It's because he had a growth spurt and it always bothered her because she stayed the same height, at five-four. The scene turns dark because Temari wishes that Gaara wasn't as observant, and she's afraid he'll figure things out. And he's the last person she wants to know.**

**Anyway, so, please review! I'll be heading deeper into her work next chapter, so be warned.**


	3. Measly Promises

**A.N.****: It should be late November in this story.**

**Well, this took me by surprise. I had this chapter lying about in my computer, half finished, and then I opened it up today, figuring I would edit and then move on to doodle aimlessly or something, but then my inspiration panda attacked me and...well, here's a new chapter.**

**I'm sleepy, so forgive whatever errors there are.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Naruto_.**

**Measly Promises**

"Did she like to draw often, Onii-san?" a raspy voice asked him, rousing him from his nap on the couch. He stretched slowly, muscles straining along his body and the entire line of his spine popping quietly, a deep and contented yawn bursting from his chest, and then letting himself slowly relax until he was simply draped across the sofa in a boneless mass of sleepiness. He turned his head to look at his baby brother, sitting on the ground beside the coffee table with a dozen sheets of paper lined up on the surface, each one covered in intricate and neat little drawings that caught his interest briefly before he remembered what they were, and then a faint tugging at the bottom of his heart troubled him as he sat up to scratch the back of his head, staring down at his knees absently.

"Baa-chan..." he murmured, just an indication that he was, indeed, going to answer Gaara's question—as a few long and silent seconds had passed between the inquiry and his pondering. He pictured Chiyo, and all her vague and foggy features that he could've sworn, not two hours ago, he had known as well as the back of his own hand. White, white skin, he remembered, but with the faint touches of yellowed age stained within, like buttermilk or sun-drenched cotton balls—if such a thing really did exist—and then dusty hair, gray as cloudy skies and soft like downy puffs floating in the air. Dark eyes, which were warm and so full of wisdom he felt the whole world would never quite collapse, just as long as she was around. And then that voice, which was rich and withering like crumpling roses or crinkling parchment, filling him with the strangest sense of misplaced nostalgia.

Ah, yes, he remembered now. How strange he had forgotten to begin with.

"Baa-chan was an artist," Kankuro finally said, smiling to himself as he recalled those brief moments she would come up behind him as he attempted to do his homework and take his small fist, formed around a pencil too big for him to write with, and quickly sketch a little picture on the margins of the paper. A bunny-rabbit or a deer, or maybe even a pretty little girl with a frilly dress, or a simple tiny flower. Something easy and plain, but lovely in all its complexity. "So was her grandson, I think, but she didn't talk about him a whole lot."

Gaara turned his head to look at the drawings, curious once more. "She sent me these, Onii-san," he mumbled beneath his breath.

"Well. Yeah," Kankuro chuckled around his words. "Yeah, she did. What about it?"

"Why would she do that?"

His fingers rapped lightly against his knees, slumping back against the couch and sighing. "Baa-chan always was a bit...cryptic, in a way. There were always hidden meanings behind everything she ever did, and she expected us to figure it out on our own." Another slow, kind smile crossed his face as he reached over and patted his brother's shoulder, as if to ease his utter confusion with simple touch. "I can't tell you why she sent them to you. You'll have to figure that out for yourself."

With that, he stood, smoothing down the creases in his shirt and stepping around his little brother to head into the kitchen, rubbing his stomach and smacking his lips. He craved something spicy.

Gaara looked back at the drawings. They were better than the ones he drew, neater and more detailed. He wanted to pin them up on the walls in his rooms, display them somewhere he would see them every day, but he found himself gathering them up to slide into the envelope instead, movements quick and methodical. He turned to look at the box, which was still filled with other things, and felt a sudden trepidation in his desire to look through it. It felt, for some reason, out of place for him to look any further. As if whatever lied in that box wasn't meant for _him _to see. And so he refrained, holding the envelope closer to his chest and feeling himself draw further into his mind, unsure what to do now.

It was hardly Friday, nearing the last hour before it became tomorrow—by default, of course; Gaara didn't count it tomorrow until the sun came up—and he had nothing to do. A drawback, he supposed, to being antisocial.

"Hey," his brother called, breaking his reverie. "You hungry? We still have all this food that we didn't end up eating. I don't want to waste it."

He rolled his thumb against his jaw, standing from his place on the floor to join Kankuro in the kitchen.

But then, his brother didn't go out too often during the weekend, either.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

"Take care of this for me, will you?"

A sharp corner of a thick, small object poked him beneath the ribs, and he glanced down, lowering his hands back down to his sides. A pristine manilla envelope, clutched tightly in her slender hand, turned upward to press against him insistently. Her name was written on the front, and a pretty little stamp with an angel was stuck on one corner. It looked personal, and, from the look on her lovely face—which was more tired and withdrawn than usual—she didn't have the patience for any questions about it. He smiled, then, and took it from her gently, prying her cool fingers from the edges and tucking it into the inner folds of his kimono, stiff and unbending against his chest. "I will," he assured, patting over it for good measure.

Her verdant eyes narrowed, deeper than any woods could go and so filled with her demons he felt he could drown in them if he weren't careful, before she looked away and sighed. "Where do you need me?" she asked, undoing the buttons of her black coat deftly.

He came around behind her immediately, slipping off her coat and hanging it on the hooks by the front door, waiting until she had unraveled her thin scarf before folding it and hiding it away in a pocket. She sat down on the floor to unbuckle her shoes, and he knelt to help her pull them off, lining them up neatly before stepping up onto level ground and holding out a hand to help her up. "Well, I hadn't completely explained myself to begin with," he admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head as she pulled her hair free from her bands, wavy locks falling around her shoulders.

A thin and well-trimmed brow rose in question, and she rolled her weight to one leg, a hand coming up to settle on her hip. "Then explain yourself now," she simply said, with all the finesse she so usually had.

He placed an arm around her shoulders, guiding her along as he spoke; she noticed right away when he took a right rather than a left at the end of the front hallway, toward the side of the shop where business was money-counting and discussion rather than service and sweaty skin. "You see, Ten-chan left an hour ago, and the rest of the girls are either preparing to leave or finishing up their shifts..."

_As if this were a real workplace_, Temari thought, leaning closer to him out of habit. _As if this weren't a whorehouse—there are no shifts, you silly man. You just wish there were, and that this wasn't what it is. _She kept her words to herself, though. He had enough to deal with without her insensitivity.

"We really have no one else for the job, really. You've been with us for quite some time, and you know the ropes better than most anyone... I was hoping you could...help me here," Itachi murmured, and she had a sinking feeling in her stomach. What was he saying? Was he really taking her up on her offer to fool around?

She hadn't expected this. She wasn't prepared.

Fucking a stranger was one thing.

Sleeping with your best friend was something else entirely.

"Itachi, I—I don't know if I could. I mean...it's not that I don't want to, it's just that I—I don't know if it's a good idea," Temari spluttered, straightening and turning her face up to look him in the eyes. "You and I—we've known each other a long time, haven't we? I just don't think now's the right time..."

He blinked, inky eyes confused, and then he seemed to understand, suddenly, and a soft smile curled his lips. "Why, Temari-san," Itachi said, teasing, "you couldn't _possibly_ be insinuating that you want to have _sex _with _me?_"

She looked away, flustered. "Of course not."

He shook his head, and pressed his hand once again to her upper back. "What I meant was, I need you to be a teacher today."

"A...teacher...?"

He reached over as they came to a stop before the last door, where the den would be—a room cleaned out and remodeled to hold all of their records; just off a small kitchenette used during business hours—and slid it open for her, urging her forward. Inside, the table had been cleared of its usual mess of paper, leaving only two or three lied out, and the lights had been switched on completely, a tea kettle whistling in the kitchen, to which Itachi quickly detached himself from her side to hurry to. The shutters had been latched shut over the window to keep the wind out, despite the fact that it seeped in through the smallest cracks of the old wood and filled the room as thickly as another atmosphere, and the ticking of the clock across the room was louder than usual. Nothing too out of place.

Except the girl in the center of room, sitting quietly at the low table, staring at the papers laid out in front of her a moment before turning her head to look at Temari.

She was slight, with what could've been a somewhat willowy, waifish figure, all straight lines and subtle softness beneath her loose black pea coat, which might've seen better days; simple gray slacks, and scruffy dark boots. Her skin was peachy and soft-looking, and her face had a natural flush. Her lashes were short but properly curled, and accentuated her emerald eyes splendidly; a pretty color that held the attention far longer than usual. And then there was her hair, which was pinned up and hidden away beneath a black wool cap, wayward strands sticking to her cheeks, the color of budding blooms.

She was rather lovely, to be perfectly honest.

"Hello," Temari said, and then gathered her bearings quickly, sliding the door shut firmly and stepping further into the room. Itachi came in then, carrying a tray with a full tea set and a plate of sweets. She recognized them instantly as the ones sold in her shop and smiled a tiny smile. _Silly man._

"Hello," the girl squeaked back, and then cleared her throat.

She couldn't have been much older than seventeen. The same age as Kankuro.

Temari suddenly felt very protective of the girl.

She caught Itachi's elbow just as he came to a stop, moving to set down the tray on the table. He looked at her, both surprised and expectant. "What is this?" she said under her breath to him.

He leaned down and put down the tray, kneeling and pouring a cup for the young girl. "I told you I needed you to be a teacher for today," he said, sliding a cup toward the girl and then pouring another for Temari. "You did it for Ten-chan. Certainly you can do it for this young lady as well?"

A cold feeling ran down her spine, and she clenched her hands into tight fists, only moving when Itachi gestured for her to have a seat, nudging a teacup toward her as he patiently waited for her response. But it was a given what she would say, and his silence was only courtesy. Her eyes moved over him, his tall and slender form, wrapped up in his shadowy kimono, his long slate hair and his faint smile, watching him offer a plate of cookies to the girl, who in turn shook her head in refusal.

This girl was still a high school student, Temari could tell, and was a rather fine student at that. It was in the way she held herself, in the way her eyes were so carefully lowered and her hands were so properly placed on her lap. A hard worker, certainly. But there was something about her that Temari could not place. It could've been a wounded past, or a whole _other _personality she kept hidden behind her composed mask of high intellect and calm.

It reminded her, painfully, of herself, not too many years ago.

Temari didn't altogether approve of letting younger girls work this particular trade, but what was there _really _for her to say? She _herself _had come here in her high school years, so who was she to judge? Hypocrisy was a trait Temari would like to avoid, no matter what the cost. Even a young girl's innocence—if there was any to speak of. Reluctant as she was, Temari would not let her own morals, which had evaded her for so long until right then, stop this girl from doing what she wanted.

"I can, yes," she finally said, and the tenseness about the girl's shoulders relaxed slightly, right before stiffening again as Itachi shifted and sipped from his cup.

He met Temari's eyes over the rim, and the way her brow twitched and his lips quirked gave away their silent communication. A product made from their time in the Academy together. A slight imperceptible nod was all she received, and she was visibly pleased with the assurance.

"Some questions first," Temari said, pushing aside the cup with her knuckles and folding her hands atop the table. "Nothing too personal. Just a few questions to make sure you'll be able to...cope with this environment."

The girl's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you saying I won't be able to handle myself here?"

_And that attitude_, Temari thought derisively, _just like mine had been. _"Just a precaution."

Itachi reached over and poured himself more tea, settling back into his silence, allowing Temari to take control, as he had resolved himself to do in situations like this.

She gathered the papers and straightened them, taking the pen Itachi offered and uncapping it. "Full name?"

"Haruno Sakura."

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

He often awoke to the smell of breakfast thick in the air, filling up the entire house and clouding about his head and curling underneath his own flesh as he stretched and forced himself to sit up, mouth already watering and stomach snarling at him insistently.

His mother, however scary and hotheaded she may be, never forgot to feed them. And if Shikamaru had to give her anything, she was rather punctual about it.

She woke up bright and early, before the birds began to chirp their morning songs and the sun was hardly staining the sky to yellow and then pale blue, to cook them a big breakfast and always did so with a gentle grace Shikamaru often forgot she had. She was kinder in the morning, all soft smiles and feathery tones, wrapping him up in her arms for a warm hug when he finally stumbled into the kitchen and brushing a kiss across his sleep-mussed hair, murmuring tenderly, "My little boy," as if he were still five and small enough to fit in her arms—even though he towered over and had to bend at the waist for her to coddle him as she so tended to do in the earlier hours of the day.

A fresh glass of orange juice or sweetened milk already set out before him to drink as she served the food onto a plate for him, sipping silently and watching her suspiciously, as if waiting for her to snap out of it. She never did. The food was hot and the steam rolled off and up toward him, cradling his face and whispering soft promises in his ears. Buttered scrambled eggs and well-done sunny-side-ups. Golden-specked hash browns or triangle-cut toast slices. Richly darkened sausages or heavenly strips of bacon. And then the curious slice of orange or diced up apple bits on a little plate beside it all; a little reminder to be healthy.

He always ate slowly, cherishing both her rare kindness and the delicious food he always somehow forgot she could conjure up every single time. He let himself, slowly, melt away with the warmth sliding through him.

His father always gave a deep, contented yawn as he stepped into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes and smiling softly at his mother, and Shikamaru always looked away just as they embraced, taking another bite out of whatever it was she decided to cook that morning. It was then that Shikamaru would realize, with a small and spiteful smile, why his father had ever fallen in love with his mother.

And the equally small smile that his father offered as he sat down across from him let him know that he _knew _that.

"It scares me," Shikamaru murmured around his bite of toast, his mother cheerfully setting down another plate and pecking his father's forehead.

"What does?" his father asked, and then tilted his head to the side, thinking, and then nodding as he chewed a mouthful of eggs. "The fact that you're wrong? Or the fact that we _both _know it?"

The scowl gave him away, and his father chuckled deeply.

"I thought so."

"Any plans today?" his mother asked as she sat down with her own plate.

He munched on some bacon, trying to remember if he'd actually _did _make plans for the day, as he so rarely ever did. But he was forgetful, and that was a trait neither his parents nor his friends let him forget. And then he remembered, and nearly choked on his own food when he gasped. "The bakery!" he exclaimed, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He stood and patted down his clothes meaninglessly. "I have to go. I'll be back later—thanks for the food." He quickly brushed a kiss across his mother's cheek and hurried out to the front room, slipping on his shoes and slipping out the front door before she could think to scold him.

His parents exchanged concerned expressions.

"He's _your _son," Yoshino muttered, stabbing at her eggs repeatedly and then popping them into her mouth.

"I could never be that energetic," Shikaku grumbled, but a smile tugged at his lips.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

Gaara usually awoke early, showering quickly and dressing in the nicest clothing he had—which came up to be a simple white button up and some black slacks, both of which were handed down by Kankuro when he'd grown out of them, but they were on their way to becoming too small for Gaara as well. He'd make his bed and open his blinds to let the light of early morning through, pushing open his window for fresh air.

Relative silence greeted him immediately.

He'd never been much of a cook, so his breakfast would always consist of microwave-heated leftovers or a bowl of cereal, providing his brother had not woken yet, which was often the case. Without a companion to speak with, he ate quickly and quietly, washing his plates and drying them with a folded rag, mind already half a mile away, within the small, quaint bakery he'd come to know better than his own home.

By the time he'd adjusted the buckles of his coat properly, his brother was already stumbling into the living room, bleary-eyed and yawning. Some buttered toast and a glass of milk was all he had for breakfast, and he was pulling on his jacket and grabbing his keys from the coffee table, waving Gaara ahead of him and locking the door behind them. "Put your seat belt on," he said absentmindedly, turning up the heat and lowering the volume on the radio over a blaring rock song. He eased out of the driveway, giving another quick yawn before shifting into drive and making his way down the road. "It's too early for this shit," he commented, rubbing his eye and tapping his fingers against the wheel to the drumbeat of a new song. The sky was still mostly gray, and hardly a soul rustled within the neighborhood. The birds were only beginning to flutter their wings in preparation for their morning songs.

"Will you teach me how to drive, Onii-san?"

He scratched at the short stubble growing on his face, glancing over at his little brother. He was looking straight ahead, as if he'd never spoken at all. Kankuro gave a short smile, turning smoothly at the right corner. "Sure thing," he replied. "Soon as we get a break from school."

The faintest of smiles touched Gaara's face and he gave a slight nod.

The parking lot was around back, where Kankuro would unlock the door for them to enter, switching on lights as they went. As he went about gathering the proper materials, Gaara went on to unlock the entrance.

He began the daily ritual of checking the kitchen; wiping clean every counter and rewashing every bowl, ladle, and cup, drying them with new cloths and lining them up neatly on a counter; counting the number of eggs and weighing the flour; pulling tubes of flavored frosting from the fridge; shaking small bottles of vanilla and syrup. A cycle to assure nothing was amiss in his kitchen. By this time, Gaara would be locking the safe once more, after checking their money, sliding shut the panel and placing a discrete box of holiday decorations before it.

A customer would not appear until mid-morning—that was a learned fact.

But when the little bell tinkled lightly from the entrance, Kankuro's routine was broken. He nearly dropped the whisk he held in his shock. His mouth opened to ask Gaara who it was, and then shut quickly. He inched toward the front room, peeking around the wall to see what was happening. What he found was a comfortably friendly conversation between his little brother and what seemed to be his new friend.

Gaara was fixing the white lace curtains at the windows as he spoke, only turning to look at the boy beside him when he was happy with how they looked. "My sister wasn't home when I woke up," he said, his tone almost apologetic. "She must've gone out grocery shopping."

The boy was lanky, with long dark hair knotted up in a high ponytail and narrow eyes. His clothing was loose-fitting, a smoky gray jacket only half zipped and a black v-neck underneath, dark baggy pants and worn out shoes. That kid that showed up every day. "That's a shame," the boy responded, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling.

Kankuro waited, uncertain, and then stepped into the room, figuring he had nothing to lose letting the kid see him. He didn't look like the type of person to run around telling everyone everything he saw. He stopped behind the cash register, clearing his throat before they could continue speaking. They turned to look at him together, his brother wide-eyed and confused and the boy plainly surprised. "Hello...?"

Gaara blinked, and then quickly remembered his manners. "This is Nara Shikamaru—"

"The boy that comes every day," Kankuro finished, leaning his hands against the counter. "I'm Kankuro."

"The baker," Shikamaru said, his lips turning upward in an amiable smile. "Pleasure to finally meet you."

"Likewise. What's this about Temari?" he asked, recalling the last few words of their previous conversation.

"Shikamaru-san's mother has always wanted to meet her, but she's busy and she sent Shikamaru-san instead," Gaara explained.

"I see." He crossed his arms. It wasn't often people wanted to meet Temari, if ever, and so she seldom ever came into the shop anymore, except to make more frosting or check investments. Sometimes, he wondered what it was she did all day. Between them going to school and working at the shop, they hardly saw her, except the few hours they got at home—but even then, it was scarce. Unless she had an extra job, he saw no reason for her recurrent absences. His mind kept drawing up blanks, and he couldn't remember a single time she had ever mentioned anything.

And then there were those mornings she wasn't there at all. The mornings spent wondering if she had ever come home to begin with—if her bed had remained cold and empty the entire night.

"I'll call her," Kankuro finally said. "Temari should meet our best customer."

He turned before they could speak, and pulled the shop's cream-colored phone from its cradle on the wall and dialed his older sister's number, tapping his foot against the ground as it began to ring on the other line.

If not for this boy to meet her, then he would call to figure out where the hell it is she went all the time.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

A muffled vibrating somewhere in the room woke him, and the first thing he noticed was the smell of lavender soap and chamomile oil, faint under his nose—a subtle scent that made his mind relax involuntarily. He rolled onto his back, giving a deep yawn before pushing himself up to sit. The room was dark, for the shutters were latched firmly and the thick curtains were drawn over them. The floor was a mess of scattered clothing, a knocked over stack of books and a few papers fallen out, having slipped from their places within the chapters of those books. He rubbed at his nose, pinching between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

He was oddly exhausted.

The vibrating continued.

Forcing himself onto his feet, he bent to search through the articles of clothing for the source, fingers patting and picking blindly before he found a particular pair of pants, black and much too fashionable for his tastes—not to mention entirely too short in the legs and somewhat too stretchy in material to match anything _he _owned. He pulled a sleek black phone with a pale purple cover from a back pocket, flipping it in his hands to read the number on the screen.

"Ah," he mumbled, voice deepened by sleep, and stepped around to the other side of the bed, reaching out slowly, gripping her shoulder and shaking her gently to rouse her.

Her hair was a tangled mass of silken wheat about her head, mascara darkening the area around her eyes and drool dried beside her lips, which were softened by her slumber. She breathed evenly, a muted snore following every breath. Her fingers twitched first, and then the soft muscles of her face. She woke with a smacking of her lips, tongue swiping across her lower one, and the fluttering of her lashes. She glared up at him moodily. "What?" she snapped, although her voice was too faint to be threatening; he only smiled in response.

He tapped the very edge of the phone against her forehead lightly. "Call for you."

She blinked, and then sat up, snatching the phone and sliding her thumb across the screen to answer. "Hello?" she said, and then cleared her throat hurriedly.

He busied himself collecting the books from the ground, picking up the papers and then returning them to their proper places, which took longer than he would've preferred.

"Right now?" she asked, and then waited for the caller's response. "No, it's not a bad time. I just woke up... I—I stayed with a friend..." She met his gaze quickly.

He smiled back, nodding; _he _was that friend.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there soon," she grumbled, stifling a yawn behind her hand. "Just let me shower and make myself pretty for the—_You shut your fucking face, I'm perfect,_" she hissed, and then hung up.

He chuckled, closing the last book and setting it down on the stack. "You are perfect," he said. "Going somewhere?"

She flopped back into the pillows, heaving a sigh. "I promised Gaara I'd meet his friend."

He stooped to pick up a shirt from the ground—a black long-sleeve that was undoubtedly hers, for the plunging collar and thinness—straightening the sleeves and folding it meticulously. "I suppose there's no avoiding it, then." He picked the pair of pants he'd found her phone in, smoothing its creases and folding it just the same.

She smirked, and he immediately recognized it, feeling his lips turn up in response as a playful glint shone in her wide verdant eyes. "If I didn't know any better, I would say you and I had a pretty wild night together."

He placed the clothing upon the table, raising his hands to pull his hair into a ponytail. "Or that you decided to drink yourself into a stupor and pass out in my bed—_naked_, I might add."

"_Half_, you prude. I'm wearing my underwear."

"You have fantastic recovery, by the way. You don't even seem fazed."

"Years of practice, my love," she said flippantly, waving off the compliment. "Now if you'll please lend me your bath and a spare change of clothes, I'll be eternally grateful."

He moved to his dresser, pulling open the top drawer and rifling through it shortly. "You're lucky it's _me _you're depending on, or you'd never get away with these things."

Her smile turned decidedly dark, and she looked away. "I know."

He glanced back at her, eyes apologetic. "It's good you left some clothes here the last time you passed out. I saved them over just in case something like this happened."

She threw off the covers, swinging her legs off the side of the bed and standing to stretch out her entire body. He averted his gaze from her form, more curvaceous and toned than he remembered it being—their school days had involved awkward, experimental hookups that never amounted to anything other than nervous touches and unfulfilled, unfinished beginnings; he had seen his fair share of her skin, the occasional extra inch or a quick flash of her more delicate areas, and she certainly had changed. He slid the drawer back shut, turning to face her just as she approached, the thumping of her bare feet the only indication.

She held the clothes against her chest, raising a brow at him inquisitively. "What? Surprised?" She struck a pose, making all of his attempts to preserve what modesty—or lack of, considering—she had, completely moot. "I won't always wear lingerie. It's not as if anyone actually cares what I'm wearing as long as I put out."

He nearly winced at her words, but smiled nonetheless. She had a point, no matter how completely...tactless her way of saying it was. And he understood what she meant, looking her over briefly. She wasn't matching in any sort of way. "How fitting."

She gave a toothy grin. "Lead me to your bathing area, good sir."

He stepped toward the door, stopped, and then draped a long jacket over her shoulders, which had been hanging over the back of the chair in the corner. Sliding open the door, he placed a hand on her shoulder to guide her out into the hallway, and then continued to lead her down toward the bathroom. "Is there a reason you agreed to meet a friend of your baby brother's?" he asked idly, opening the bathroom door and moving forward to fill the tub with hot water, twisting a few complex knobs as he spoke.

She shrugged, placing the clothes on the edge of the sink. "He's a regular at the bakery and he wanted to meet the owner."

"Being you," he said, checking the temperature and then straightening to let the tub fill. "By default, of course."

"Don't sass me, boy," she said, scratching behind her ear. "I promised."

"I'm not denying that."

He flicked his hands dry, turning on his heel to walk to the door. She handed him the jacket on his way, offering a smile. "You're just confused as to why I'm doing it."

"It's not your style." He tilted his head to the side as she reached up to tuck a loose strand of black back into his ponytail.

"No," she admitted. "But he deserves this—I've broken enough promises."

A moment of silence passed, where his gaze became pained and his mouth was opening to apologize, before she clapped her hand against his arm and shoved him out the door.

"No more sentimental talk. Get out."

She shut the door firmly in his face, which had been drawn in a somber expression.

She bowed her head, clenching her fists tightly at her sides and gritting her teeth.

She really fucking hated emotions.

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

**A.N.****: Wow, I am painfully sleepy. So, again, errors are due to my sleepiness.**

**The relationship between Itachi and Temari will have a bit more depth later on. Nothing romantic, don't worry, I just felt it would serve to make sense of her past.**

**Anyway, please review! I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can.**


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